Giants and their Clubs tisk tisk
by Elira Rose
Summary: What happens Calder frolicks off to accomplish a task for his Dragonborn's bidding? Come and see... Oneshot. I only put DB as the character because Calder wasn't an option.


Calder once more, probably the fifteenth time if he felt the need to keep track, wondered why his Thane found the need for a giant's toe at this moment. Calder was a red-haired, fair-skinned, burly, and somewhat sensible Nord who preferred to bask in the candlelight of a mead hall and drown himself in said alcohol rather than face an angry giant whose brain was no larger than a grain of wheat. But whose clubs could bash your brain out through your nose.

He was not scared, oh no, Calder was a brave old hunk of flesh. He was simply not in the mood for yet another of his master's errands, especially ones that involved such distasteful actions.

His master was the Dragonborn, hero of Skyrim, and Thane of just about every city, including Windhelm. Oh, he had been ecstatic when Ulfric Stormcloak had informed him he was to be the Dragonborn's protector.

That is, until he met the bloody woman.

She was beautiful, really, she was. But upon learning she spent her spare times chatting with dragons, he knew he had just slit his own throat. Or, better yet, slitting his throat would be the satisfactory choice of action. He was babysitting a loony. A hero, but a flipping loony.

He should have held his tongue and ran head first to Riften and bathe himself in Black-Briar mead. He should have apologized to Ulfric Stormcloak, but explained he cared for himself more than to be foolish enough to galavange into ancient crypts with her. He should have been intelligent, but no, he had assumed the Dragonborn was right-minded enough to consider the well-being of her Housecarl. That maybe, maybe, she would be one of those bosses that allowed their housecarls to fatten themselves on apple pies and ale rather than actually do anything productive, because she preferred to accomplish duties on her own abilities.

Nay.

It wouldn't be so bad; he attempted to reassure himself the first few weeks with the young woman. Sure, he had almost gotten an ice spike in his nose. Nearly getting bled dry by a lunatic Necromancer at Ranveig's Fast. But it wouldn't be so bad; really, it just took some getting used. Besides, he was robust, he was no milk drinker. He could handle this.

Oh, Mara, how could he be so naive? Even then, he still had time to hightail his backside halfway to Hammerfell. But no, he had to be the valiant Housecarl.

After that, she began to delve into more crypts and insane missions that displayed plenty of otherworldly contents. He about got killed by a bloody Dragonpriest who floated in the air and caterwauled people with electricity from some staff. A DRAGONPRIEST. WHAT WAS HE THINKING? An undead spirit who looked like he would suck Calder's soul from his eyes, if not disintegrate him with the staff that he so kindly aimed at him.

WHY DID THE DRAGONBORN HATE HIM SO MUCH?!

But that wasn't even the worst of it. Oh, no. It never was. Then they had to go after Forsworn...

FORSWORN. THE MADMEN WHO LET HAGRAVENS REPLACE THEIR HEARTS WITH THORNS. The bloody freaks that were dressed like harlots and shouted nonsense about themselves. He still could not decide which had been worse - the Dragonpriest, or the Forsworn.

His mum was right. He was a fool. If only he had taken such information to heart rather than strutted off in defiance.

He had suffered from more than a few bruises. Thankfully, his sweet master knew a few spells that eased off the edge. Really, she was mad. One moment, she could seem rather sensible and kind, the next she was trying to convince you that sweetrolls could fall from the sky.

He told himself then and there that he was done, that he would never again set foot out of Windhelm with that dragon-talking-dragonpriest-sacrificing-forsworn-hunting-Dragonborn again. He would break the news to her and drag his sorry butt to the nearest place serving mead and allow the alcohol to soak up his tears. Heck, he might even go find a nice woman and settle down. Perhaps get a job with an Alchemist or Smith or something other... Anything was better than being with the Dragonborn.

But then she gave him that puppy-dog eyed look, and he knew he was screwed. Screwed, screwed, screwed. He wouldn't die because he fought in some war for his country. His scars wouldn't be from fighting off many evils that threatened his neighbors. No, he would die by getting hit by one of those many spiked-door-traps, and his scars would be from his master accidentally tripping over a cart and sending it flying into his gut, and in turn making his guts bleed out in some Divine-forsaken cave.

Mara take him now.

And now, here he was. He sat on his haunches behind a large, moss-cloaked boulder, watching one of those stupid creatures walk around their fire pit with their club over their shoulder. Was it drooling?

Crap. Why didn't he just go to an Alchemist like any other decent fellow and buy the over-priced ingredient? Now he had done it, he had really done it. He just could not be intelligent. Of course, he would take an execution by a giant - somewhat courageous, if you left out the toe fetching part - over dying from a cart...

It was the Dragonborn's fault. Her insanity was wearing off on him. Maybe Sheogorath was using her to play with him for a time-killer? Maybe she was just possessed by Sheogorath? That would at least begin to sound semi-plausible and give him something to go on, something stable to maneuver himself back to his sane self.

He would investigate such queries later. Back to the matter at hand...

It was too late to go back to a local city and purchase a crusted giant's toe. He was knee deep in this, and he would finish this. Hey, maybe after this fool's errand he would finally be committed to giving up these tactics and do something reasonable with himself...

"Well, Calder," He muttered exhaustedly to himself, knowing full well it would only heighten the suspicion of insanity. "You brought this on yourself, you did. Maybe your mum still loves you enough to give you a hero's funeral. Talos knows you deserve as much. Maybe even Nilsine Shatter-Shield will cry for you, she always was a beautiful girl, and you never failed to compliment her."

Unsheathing his ebony mace from its scabbard, a somewhat precious gift from Dragonborn, and straightening his form reluctantly to gain a better view of his opponent and let out a soundless breath. The giant really was a daft creature; it still had zero knowledge of the warrior eyeing it for its next victim. It was far too synchronized with it's thoughts of mammoth cheese, and how it needed to make some more. It's fellow giant, who was off looking for more skeevers to char, would complain if they begun to get low, for the stuff was a rather tasty delicacy that their mammoth's kindly produced the milk for.

Calder instinctively blew the pestering tendrils of hair at of his eyes, still not making a sound to disturb the large thing. He would call it a 'thing', and depersonalize it more, so the remorse that would take hold would not be as horrendous as it could be. He had an ebony shield in his left fist, which after plenty of saved up septims, had purchased to spoil him. It went rather well with his mace, and did more defense than that old, rusty iron one.

He debated rushing at Thing, or rather to scout again and find a more reasonable stance and pelt it with arrows. Problem was, he was rusty at his archery skill since he and the Dragonborn had found little needed to range in their last months of adventuring. He had been a good archer before, but he was apprehensive that he was far too unpracticed, and thus, making a wrongful choice would only double the chances of his downfall.

If he could be as blessed as receive the element of surprise, a nice bashing would maim Thing critically and make the job swift and precise, and perhaps with little wounds on his side. That did sound the more delightful of choices. There was only one Thing, and if he embedded his tool in Thing's spine correctly, he could kill it immediately.

Wonderful! He was finally thinking like a rational man again.

Tutting to himself under his breath, he lowered into a sneak crouch unnoticed. Carefully, he lifted his first foot, moved his weight toward the motionless foot, and allowed suspended foot to gently make contact with the earth.

No sound.

He allowed his weight to return back to the original foot, and repeated this action back and forth with his feet until he could touch the giant.

Okay, so far, so good.

He withheld all breathing until he could lift his arm, masterfully displayed, and swing mace into the giant's flesh. Immediately, the crack and slash of bone and marrow sounded in his ears, followed by a spurt of blood that so generously splattered across his face.

The giant howled, Calder cursed at the warm, sticky liquid that he could taste on his lips.

The giant spun, knocked Calder from his potion with its flailing arm, enraged. Thankfully, it was still startled and its push didn't cause anything but a possible future bruise.

It had not dropped dead as Calder had hoped it would, explaining that he had been off on his precision, and now had to think fast.

It was wounded, yes, but furious. And furious giants wheeled on adrenaline-pumped anger and its club. Which only meant a likely end to it's enemy's life, if said enemy lost its wit and fell in the rattling of panic. Only the collected and calm type survived through bad turns like this.

Of course, it was always likely even sensible blokes who thought quickly caught their demise. They just never lived to tell they had acted out of anything but stalled fear.

Like Calder.

The giant, as stupid as he may be, seemed to react quicker than the hearty Nord. He brought its impending staff against both the ground and Calder, earning a blood-curdling scream from the foolish Nord. But it soon trailed off into but a far off cry as the Nord managed to be propelled into the air at the impact of the giant's staff-banging.

Calder's body went flying like a bird, only instead of chirps, graceful flaps of wings, and straight flight, he was caressed with his own spazzing flails, ear-rattling screams, and went upward.

But, he did not stay that way. Out of breath, mind blank other than questions toward himself and toward his event, he came back toward to earth quicker than he went up, and hit Nirn with a great thump.

The mind could wonder what Calder would think of this if he wasn't...dead, and incapable of such a function as thinking.

And the Nords called the giants stupid! Tisk tisk. This Nord had thought giants were easy prey, and only swung their clubs arrogantly. They had not thought that giants had the capability of, say, having the god-given strength to send their opponents to the heavens!

Oh well, ta ta. Back to the mammoth cheese business. That was much more important than reprimanding foolish Nords who had no clue what they got themselves into. He would have his mate take care of that annoying wound when he got back, for giants didn't bleed as profusely as other races did. And so his wound was more of a scratch than anything critical.

Oh, and he would happily tell said mate that they would be having Nord for their appetizer.

* * *

A/N: Ugh, so I most aggrievedly apologize if this had no style, intelligence, neatness, beauty, et cetera... I promise my fan fiction stories are better; this is but a sloppy, unedited, and unproofread, unworthy example of my writing... This really was just a time-killer and something to entertain me. x3 It was probably too short, too idiotic, and lacking any hope of potential. Ah well! There may come a time where I redo this, along with my other present, and future one shots.

But, I hope you find it not to be a waste of your time, at least. Have we not all experienced this lovely little perk in Skyrim? How we so bravely took on a giant, only to be thrust into the skies of Skyrim, and wonder, 'what in Oblivion just happened?!' I have, and I found it to be amusing. I also found Calder to be the perfect victim for this.

Sorry Calder...

Ah, and we must wonder of all our followers feel like Calder now and then...that our Dragonborn is possessed by Sheogorath... Le'sigh.

I have a great thanks to anyone who reviews and favorites! I will see if Sheogorath can spare some strawberry tortes.

Oh, and if you give criteria, please be gentle... This, along with other one shots, was simply to amuse me and maybe other readers. :) It was never meant to be anything brilliant.

Thank you, lovely readers!

~Ray Ray


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